


Riemann

by flimsy



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Crossover Pairings, Drunk Sex, Frottage, M/M, Mathematics, Possessive Behavior, boys are stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:12:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flimsy/pseuds/flimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is exactly it - he can’t wrap his head around this. The sexual innuendos and the careless attitude and the way Adam will breath down his neck when he’s practising down in the Lambert basement, practically pressed up against him, and then simply wander off to make out with whoever he just invited over. It’s nonsensical. Ridiculous. <i>Irrational</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riemann

**Author's Note:**

> In my head Spencer Smith still is the [tiny, girly boy](http://i157.photobucket.com/albums/t68/quinteuse/Spencer%20Smith/tfrghtr55-1.jpg) from 2007 and goes with just about any toppy, hot guy. Blatant AU, set in Chicago.  
> More on the Riemann hypothesis [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Riemann_hypothesis); Mandelbrot [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mandelbrot_set)

To Spencer, people are mathematical problems that require a solution, swift and easy. It’s what he does; to him all humans are predictable and solvable. It’s easy to him, and never is the solution _i_. 

Take Jon for example. Spencer can play him like a triangle stuck in the Pythagorean theorem - shift one side, expect reaction from the others. When Spencer calls him in the middle of the night, drunk off his rockers, his eyeliner smeared, he knows Jon will leave his cats and his dog and his girlfriend and come get Spencer in his car, still half asleep. He knows Jon will take him home and then, depending on Spencer’s mood and willingness to coerce him into it, stay until dawn, their sweats mingling on their naked skin even though Jon feels guilty and is not the type to cheat. Spencer doesn’t care. He’ll play him like a fucking violin simply because he can. 

Then there’s Ryan who, all things considered, is Spencer’s best friend but as predictable as the circumference of a circle. Ryan’s got his radius that shifts with his emotions, depends on the day, whether the sun shines or it rains and what kind of coffee he’s had in the morning: but Spencer will always be able to read him because all else is constant. Simple as that.

But Adam. Spencer wants to solve Adam like an equation, too - find the essence of Adam. Distill him to the very basis. Do a little prodding until he, too, comes apart beautifully. 

But he can’t. Adam’s mind is like the Riemann hypothesis to Spencer. Beautiful and elegant, perfect in every sense, yet unsolvable. Unprovable. In that sense Spencer does not want to rely on him; Adam makes him wary because there is nothing that will tell Spencer how he’s going to react to situations, words, people, actions. He takes Spencer out of his comfort zone. 

 

-

 

“We’re going to get dirty, here and now,” Adam says with a grin. He’s sweaty from the show and so is Spencer and Ryan and Jon, too. Spencer doesn’t know how much dirtier they’re going to get without actually jumping into the sewer, but ever since Adam joined the band he’s gotten used to nonsense statements like that. He’s gotten used to having glitter all over their gear and not having a quiet minute until the day ends and Adam is safely tucked in. 

Still, he tilts his head and cocks a brow at Adam. “We’re rather dirty already, aren’t we?” he says smoothly and Adam finishes tucking off his T-shirt and dives down to press their noses together, no respect for personal space at all. 

“I can make you even more dirty, baby,” he replies, smirking, and then darts away, freckled back and all, already tugging off his pants. 

Spencer swallows and stares after him, stunned. This is exactly it - he can’t wrap his head around this. The sexual innuendos and the careless attitude and the way Adam will breath down his neck when he’s practising down in the Lambert basement, practically pressed up against him, and then simply wander off to make out with whoever he just invited over. It’s nonsensical. Ridiculous. _Irrational_. 

 

-

 

Spencer is drunk again; not the kind that makes him stumble and lose his balance and find the closest bathroom to empty out the contents of his stomach, but the kind that makes him smile and laugh and be generally pleasant to be with. 

He’s on the couch in the living room of Adam’s (parents’) spacious house, legs crossed and laughing at another one of Gabe’s silly stunts. Gabe’s dancing quickstep, pressed head to toe to William Beckett whose face looks so sour Spencer thinks he might turn into a lemon at any moment. The entire scene is hilarious - the music loud and Spencer hollers even more loudly when Gabe finally lets go, but not before pressing his mouth against William’s, fully kissing him before releasing him. 

William smacks his head, but he’s laughing too and going to the bar for a drink, so Spencer just sits back and allows Gabe to approach him.

“Quite a show,” he drawls when Gabe sits down next to him and reaches down to retrieve his Corona. 

“Lambert should pay me.” Gabe smirks. “For entertaining his guests and all.” 

Spencer snorts and stretches his body out, a languid movement that he knows will get Gabe’s attention. Their eyes meet and Spencer smiles at him over the rim of his glass before taking another sip. This is where Spencer decides what he wants. He takes his time, scrutinizing Gabe, considering the pros and the cons. Yes, he finally thinks, but then a familiar voice booms from the other end of the room, “Saporta, get your ass over here, man, Vicky is running _amoc_.” 

And that’s that. Gabe is on his feet in three seconds and Spencer is left with a decision and nobody to decide for. Adam flops down on the sofa a moment later, long limbs sprawled out, a bottle of Heineken in his hand. 

“What are you doing?” he asks in a conversational tone and Spencer stares at him, then finally realizes what he means.

“Trying to get laid, asshole,” he spits out and scans the room for Gabe who by now has probably taken his step-sister outside. He’s a responsible brother. A responsible man. Spencer knows that, and still he’s angry. 

Adam’s eyes narrow at him and his hand wanders from the backrest of the couch to the small of Spencer’s neck, fingers digging in, not gently, but hard. Spencer winces and tries to pull away but the pressure only gets tighter. 

“What?” he demands and shakes his head as much as he can. 

“Don’t fucking do that,” Adam says, voice low and dangerous. “Don’t fucking do that in my house.” 

Spencer huffs out a laugh. “What? Why not? Only you have the privilege of getting your dick sucked in here? Is that some kind of shitty house rule?” 

“Spencer,” Adam warns and there’s something in his tone that makes a shiver run through him. 

He doesn’t budge, though. “I’ve seen you make out here with more people than I can possibly count,” he continues. “Oh, and hey - there’s Tommy making out with Greta. How about that? Does he have special permission?” He points and then downs his drink, trying to edge away. He reaches up when Adam doesn’t let go on his own and starts prying his fingers away one by one, gaze fixed on Adam who stares back and who won’t let go. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” Spencer emphasizes and then uses the entire weight of his body to wrench away. Adam follows him and grabs his neck again, and then drags him up and if Spencer were to resist again this would turn into a full-on fight and he doesn’t want that. He lets Adam manhandle him out into the corridor, Adam’s other hand suddenly on his wrist, and then into a spare bathroom which Adam locks swiftly. 

Spencer opens and closes his mouth, eyes darting over the tub and the stone-clad shower and the giant mirror on one of the walls, panic surging up. Adam is blocking his way and even if he did get past, he couldn’t unlock the door fast enough. He pulls his lower lip between his teeth and backs up until his hips hit the sink, heart pounding. 

Adam follows, towering over him, pressing his hands against the edge of the sink, framing Spencer who suddenly feels very small. He looks up, brows furrowing, and then, to his surprise and amazement, Adam’s hands find the small of his back and pull him up a little and his mouth presses against Spencer’s, lips warm and softer than they look. 

Spencer makes a strangled sound, but opens up and kisses back for a moment. It’s so hot - the feel of Adam’s body against his, their slick tongues sliding against each other. This is easy, he thinks. He knows how this works. Spencer moans and fists his hand into Adam’s shirt and then suddenly it’s over. 

Adam pulls back and releases him, face looking a little desperate, and Spencer knows nothing anymore again. 

“Sorry,” Adam mumbles and steps back until he hits the door. He reaches down and unlocks it, then leaves - _flees_ \- the room. Spencer stays, eyes wide, confused. 

 

-

 

The thing is, Brendon had to leave. Nobody blames him. A scholarship like that? He would’ve been a fool to let that opportunity slip, and New York is amazing. Spencer is not mad at him, he could never be mad at him, it’s _Brendon_ for Christ’s sake, but Spencer also wishes that things were back to being easy. 

Adam doesn’t pick up his phone two days after the party when they’re supposed to meet for lyrics at Spencer’s and Ryan’s tiny apartment. Spencer calls him and calls him and texts him but there is no reply, not even voicemail. 

Jon and Ryan decide they can work on a draft without Adam for now and just ask his opinion later, but Spencer is having none of it. He asks Jon for the keys to his car and then drives to Adam’s house. 

His parents still aren’t home - no car in the driveway - and Spencer pulls up and boldly parks where Mrs Lambert’s car usually sits. Stuffing the keys into his pocket he walks up to the house and lets himself in because the door is not locked and he’s been invited in here more times than he can remember. 

There’s loud music coming from Adam’s basement apartment and Spence walks downstairs quickly, hand on the banister. The lights are off, but there’s a faint glow coming from Adam’s bedroom and Spencer heads towards it, ready to say something scathing about missing band times and all. 

“Adam!” he calls out, feeling courteous, wanting to give him some time to cover himself in case he’s sleeping in the nude again. He rounds the corner and then peeks into Adam’s bedroom, large and luscious, all white and black furniture, his fingers curling around the doorframe. 

His mouth drops open and his face colors brightly, because Adam is there, his dick inside a small blond boy who’s furiously jerking himself off and they’re both naked and Adam is staring up, frozen in the middle of a thrust because Spencer had the goddamned foresight to warn him that he was coming. 

“Oh god,” he says and stumbled backwards, feeling more embarrassed than he thought was ever possible. “Oh god, I’m sorry.” 

He turns on his heels and bolts, running up the stairs and his heart is pounding, his chest is tight and he has no idea what’s happening and why he’s so angry all of a sudden. He reaches the ground floor and has to lean against the wall for a moment to catch his breath. Spencer has never seen the boy before, not even at one of Adam’s numerous parties, and yes, Spencer knows Adam does this, invites strangers over and sleeps with them, but actually seeing it is an entirely different matter. 

He rubs his face and pinches his nose and then Adam is suddenly running up the stairs only in his briefs and a hounded expression on his face. 

“Spencer-” he starts when he reaches him. “That-”

He smells like sex, earthy and mossy and deep, and Spencer feels himself color even more, inching away. “Sorry,” he mumbles and looks away, trying not to stare at the myriad of freckles on Adam’s chest and shoulders and arms, trying not to stare at the trail of dark hair leading into his briefs like a promise. 

“He’s nobody,” Adam insists and Spencer doesn’t know why that should matter, but it does. “Honestly, he’s just- I don’t even know his name anymore right now.” 

Spencer’s head flies up at that. How is knowing that Adam fucks boys whose names he can’t remember supposed to make him feel better? He doesn’t say it, though, the words stuck in his throat. 

“Say something,” Adam urges. 

“I should go home,” is all Spencer manages. He squeezes away from the wall, careful not to touch Adam, and all but runs back to the car. 

 

-

 

Spencer tries not to have high expectations; he knows from experience that they only lead to bitter disappointments. So Spencer tries to have a realistic outlook on things. 

Take the band for example: Spencer knows how small the actual chances of them - three of them in college, one drop-out - making it are. He realizes that he needs to take his studies seriously and that he can’t let his hopes and expectations get the better of him. He knows that the probabilities of them getting signed, getting a single out, making an album and selling it are ridiculously low. 

Still, he can’t stop staring at Adam who’s been playing with the settings on his mic for more than fifteen minutes now, thirty percent longer than it usually takes him to fix it, Spencer notices. He’s in an unfair position, too; his drumset always gives him the best vantage point. From here he can observe all three of them without being noticed. 

But Adam turns and looks and does notice Spencer watching; it makes a blush creep up Spencer’s face and he turns away and reaches for his water bottle to cover it up. It’s their third show in a month, they’re on a roll, and they can’t fuck this up. More than that: _Spencer_ can’t fuck this up. 

They play ok; Spencer goes through the routine on autopilot and Adam’s voice never falters. He doesn’t think anyone has noticed anything until Jon corners him in the dressing room after the show, Ryan in the shower and Adam fuck knows where. 

“Spence,” he says quietly, eyes full of worry, “Spence what’s going on?” 

“Nothing,” Spencer bites out. He hates it when Jon treats him like a little kid. He hates it when Jon calls him Spence and gets this tone that he uses with his dog or that Spencer uses with the twins. 

“It’s not nothing,” Jon continues tiredly. “Something’s going on.” He reaches out in an unusually intimate gesture and rubs his thumb over Spencer’s cheek. Spencer bites his lip and stares at him. “You can tell me,” Jon insists and smiles at him, but then his eyes dart up and his hand falls away and there are fingers on Spencer’s neck again, squeezing. 

“Yeah, what’s going on, baby,” Adam’s voice says close to his ear and Spencer feels goosebumps all over, hot and prickly, even as Jon stares at him when Adam stirs him outside and down a little hallway and outside. 

He lets go when they’re there and Spencer congratulates himself for not backing away; Adam taps a cigarette from his battered pack, the one he carries around but never actually, really uses because Adam only ever smokes when he’s completely stressed out. Spencer knows this because Adam once explained to him why this pack of cigarettes is six months old. 

Spencer stands and waits in silence until he can’t hold it in anymore. “What? What the hell, Adam? What the actual fucking hell?” 

Adam finishes his cigarette and grinds it out with the heel of his boot. “Are you sleeping with him?”

Spencer opens and closes his mouth, taken back by the question. “No,” he finally says. Not right now. Generally, that would be an entirely different question. 

Adam’s mouth tightens and god, there must have been something on Spencer’s face that betrayed him. “You are,” Adam states flatly and there’s no great outburst, no accusations. He stuffs his hands into his impossibly tight jeans, shoulders suddenly hunched. Even like this he’s so much taller than Spencer, his freckled collarbone peeking out from under his glittery shirt. Nothing he does is anything that Spencer expects. 

“No,” Spencer says again, “not anymore. And it wasn’t a thing.” He doesn’t even know why he’s telling Adam this, why it’s important to him that Adam knows all these things, but here he is spilling his guts. 

Adam huffs out a little laugh and shakes his head, not quite looking at Spencer. “Not a thing, yeah, I imagine. Him having a girlfriend and all.” 

Spencer feels his stomach tighten at that. “Look, it’s none of your business,” he snaps, angry at himself and at Adam, too. 

Adam visibly grinds his teeth. “What if I want it to be my business, Spencer?” 

“What?” Spencer crosses his arms, confused. 

Adam offers no explanation but he crosses the space between them and leans down to kiss him. Spencer has to get on his toes - his toes! - to reach up and wind his arm around Adam’s neck and kiss him back desperately, like a drowning man. 

They’re all teeth and tongue, clicking and licking, and then Spencer comes to his senses and pushes Adam away with two hands at his chest. 

“No, no, no,” he pants. “This is not-” All he can remember is Adam fucking a blond guy whose name he can’t remember in his parents’ basement apartment. Spencer doesn’t want to be that guy. 

Adam lets out a frustrated sigh, a growl even, and drops his hands against the wall behind Spencer, allowing him to duck out and run - again. 

 

-

 

Spencer wakes blearily and too soon, his head pounding; it takes a while for him to realize that there is actual _pounding_ too - sounds coming from outside his bedroom. He stumbles to his feet and out into the living room/kitchen and there’s somebody almost kicking in the door in. 

He doesn’t check the spyhole, just wrenches the door open and there is Adam, a tray of coffees in one hand, the other raised to knock again. 

Spencer rubs his eyes. “Hi?” 

“Hi,” Adam says and fumbles with the tray, then manages to get one of the cups out. “Here. Coffee. You’ll need it,” he adds after a moment. 

“Why?” Spencer takes the coffee, body still heavy with sleep. 

“Because we’re driving somewhere.” 

“No,” Spencer says and takes a step back. “No more unpredictable things, Adam.” He shakes his head. “I can’t deal with this.” Adam Lambert is the motherfucking Zeta function of people, he thinks maniacally. 

Adam stays outside, though, and doesn’t move to touch him, even though Spencer can see that he wants to, that he’s itching to reach out and just grab him and make him bend to his will. Four months of working with Adam have taught Spencer that Adam is not a guy who takes no for an answer mostly because it’s not an answer he hears very often. 

“Where?” he asks finally. 

“I can’t tell you,” Adam says firmly and Spencer shakes his head again. 

“This is not how we play this,” he says. “Try again, Lambert.” 

There is an instant in which Spencer thinks Adam is going to turn on his heel and leave, but then he concedes, atypically, and replies, “Lakeshore. Beach park.” 

“Okay,” Spencer says. He lets Adam in and sets his coffee on the counter to get dressed. Thirty minutes later they’re in Adam’s expensive as fuck SUV driving up the freeway north. 

Adam is blasting Queen and not saying anything and Spencer is on his third donut. He doesn’t know if he will be able to stand more than an hour of this intense silence. Even more intense because Adam is usually never actually quiet. He has his moments of introspection before he goes on stage, a minute or two where he will collect his thoughts, but he never keeps his mouth shut. It’s a law of nature and it bothers Spencer that it’s being broken so blatantly. 

After Deerfield Spencer can’t take it anymore. The silence is an anvil crushing him. “Say something,” he blurts out in an odd echo of what Adam asked him three days ago. 

Adam’s foot presses down on the gas and Spencer sinks into his seat, fingers tapping on the handrest. 

“What do you want me to say?” Adam finally concedes, eyes flicking away from the road to look at Spencer for a microsecond. 

“I don’t know. Something.” He shrugs, helpless. 

“You have the most beautiful mouth,” Adam says without looking at him. “And when you drum it’s like porn.” 

Spencer blinks, staring at the freckles on Adam’s lips, and then turns his head again, cheeks coloring deeply for reasons he can’t understand. He’s heard dirtier things said to him before; much dirtier than this, and never did he blush. 

He doesn’t reply, just closes his eyes and pretends he’s asleep until the car slows down and Adam pulls into a parking lot. Spencer stretches and unbuckles, then gets out of the car, staring out into the greenery. 

“From here we have to walk,” Adam says, pulling a bag from the trunk of the car, and Spencer falls into step with him when he starts walking. The air is pleasant, not quite warm yet, but Spencer can feel that it will heat up during the day; it’s only ten and the sun is out and shining. It’s going to be a warm day. 

They walk out towards the water and find a quiet spot where Adam spills the contents of the bag and Spencer quietly watches him spread out a blanket and set a thermos and more donuts and bagels on it. He sits down and takes the small paper cup of black coffee Adam offers, wincing at the taste. 

“Did you make this?” he asks. 

Adam nods. “Yeah, I know it sucks. I’m not a barista.” He grins and shrugs, and Spencer knows what he’s saying, feeling almost bad about it. 

“It’s okay,” he manages. “It’s not that bad.” 

Adam smiles at him, all freckles and white teeth and bright eyes and Spencer’s heart skips a beat, inexplicably. 

“I’m not sleeping with Jon anymore,” he says to his own surprise. “Like, for a long time.” It got too complicated. Too messy. He doesn’t say that, though. 

“Okay.” Adam reaches out and squeezes Spencer’s neck where it meets his shoulder, pressing down and Spencer lets out a sigh, the pressure just right. He allows it for a moment and then shrugs the hand off again, reaching for one of the cream cheese bagels. 

“It’s nice here,” he says when he’s done taking a few bites, Adam’s intense gaze following all his movements. 

“Yeah.” Adam leans back on his elbows; he’s not eating, just watching and Spencer thinks he knows now what it feels like for other people when he’s assessing them. What it feels like to be picked apart and put back together like a badly assembled function from which even worse conclusion are drawn, the graphs all mangled. 

“I missed advanced number theory at ten, though.” He just remembered. Adam shrugs and Spencer realizes that he doesn’t care either.

“Tell me your favorite equation,” Adam says as though it’s something he’s been meaning to ask. “I know shit about maths, so don’t go into detail.” He grins and it’s blinding, a sunrise. 

Spencer hums and closes his eyes. “Mandelbrot,” he finally replies. 

Adam pokes his thigh with his toe and Spencer looks at him again. “Mandelbrot?”

“Yeah.” Spencer picks an invisible loose thread off his jeans. 

“Alright, you may go into detail, because I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

Spencer grins and shakes his head. “It’s a mathematical set. It creates an infinite fractal when you express it as an image.” He purses his lips, thinking, trying to find a way to explain it to Adam. “Essentially, you have an equation that defines a series of objects. That’s a set. And the Mandelbrot set tends towards infinity. What’s more, is that if you put the set into an imaging program, it’ll give you a fractal.” Adam squinted at him. “An object that at all scales shows the same properties.” He points at towards the waves. “They’re fractals, basically. No matter how much you zoom in, you will never be able to tell how big the wave is. It looks the same in all magnifications.”

“Ah.” Adam nods slowly. “Nothing like you, then.”

Spencer makes an inquisitive sound, eyes narrowing and Adam explains, “I mean, the more I zoom in on you, the more things I discover that I haven’t seen before.”

“Oh,” Spencer makes. There’s a logic in that. Spencer likes to keep some things, _many_ things to himself, keep himself locked up and will only ever open up to even Ryan if strictly necessary. 

 

-

 

Spencer falls asleep on the beach with Adam softly singing to the lake, to the beach, to him. He drifts off and wakes again when the sun is high and the heat is blazing down. He knows without reaching up that he’s sunburned. 

“Why didn’t you wake me?” He sits up and carefully prods his nose and cheeks, wincing. 

“I like you freckly,” Adam says and then leans over and kisses him on his cheek right under his left eye; it stings, the touch, but Spencer catches his breath anyway, before batting Adam away and getting up. 

He calls Ryan from the car on their way back, and yes, he’s alive, no he won’t pull shit like that again without leaving a note, no, Adam is not driving under the influence. 

Adam sings along with the radio, relaxed and happy, a few additional freckles all over his face and neck and hands. He’s like a force of nature with his voice and his charisma and his smile, a powerhouse thrumming deep and fast. It’s hard not to get pulled into the vortex and Spencer succumbs, finally, because it’s pointless. If Adam is Spencer’s Riemann hypothesis, he’s also the basis for everything. Spencer can’t deny it any longer. 

Adam drops him off in front of his apartment building and Spencer leans over on a whim and kisses first one freckle on Adam’s lips, then another and another until their mouths are completely pressed together.

Adam pulls him closer, hand in Spencer’s hair, tugging and holding him there; it’s so much better to be kissing Adam when he’s sober and not angry. Soft and sweet almost, until Adam starts biting at his lips and sucking his tongue and Spencer has to draw back because he’s out of breath. 

“Call me,” he says stupidly, because Adam will call anyway, he’s in Spencer’s band for fuck’s sake, and stumbles from the car, heart pounding. 

 

-

 

Spencer learns Adam’s sharp architecture, his planes and edges and highs and lows; now that he’s paying attention to Adam himself instead of wanting to analyze his behavior, Spencer begins to understand. 

They’re over at Adam’s house some days later, writing lyrics, making music, and Spencer’s had a little too much of, well, everything, and doesn’t even notice when Jon and Ryan leave. He’s sprawled on Adam’s bed and when he feels it dip he rolls to his side instinctively. 

“I think Ryan should take me home,” he mumbles against Adam’s thigh. 

“Ryan went home,” Adam says and lies down next to him. He strokes Spencer’s cheek and neck, fingers tousling his hair. 

Spencer shuffles closer and then they’re kissing, Spencer’s leg thrown over Adam’s hip, their bodies pressed together. Adam stops him and says something about him being drunk but Spencer doesn’t give a fuck whether he’s drunk or sober he just wants Adam and he wants him now. 

He kisses him again, open mouthed and hungry and rocks against him, going pliant and willing when Adam takes over and that seems to break something loose inside Adam. He pushes Spencer down and fists his hand into his hair and sucks on his mouth as though they’re both drowning. 

Spencer mewls and spreads his legs and lets Adam settle between them, lets Adam take his hands and pin them over his head. It’s probably the hottest thing that has ever happened to him and he moans and meets Adam half-thrust, his cock twitching. 

“I need you naked,” Adam groans and then starts stripping him fast and efficiently, tearing off his clothes until Spencer’s spread out against the dark purple satin bedding, flushed and sweating and breathing hard. He takes off his T-shirt and drops it on the floor, then scoots closer.

He can see Adam’s erection straining against his fly and sits up to cup it and undo the zipper; Adam grunts and thrusts into his hand and then lies on top of him again only to roll them over, hands digging into Spencer’s hips. 

His dick slides against Spencer’s cleft, hard and sticky with precome and sweat, and Spencer shivers and reaches down between them to rub his own cock while Adam ruts up against him. Their breaths and moans mingle, filling the bedroom; Spencer clings to Adam, nails digging into Adam’s chest and comes with a strangled cry, splattering his chest and Adam’s. 

“Fuck, yeah-” Adam’s hands slide from his hips to his ass, grabbing squeezing, and he speeds up and for a panicked, delicious moment Spencer thinks he’s going to push in dry, and his cock twitches at the thought, but Adam freezes, head falling back to expose his long, strong neck and he comes pulsing against and between Spencer’s cheeks. 

They collapse, spent and tired and sticky. After a moment Adam laughs, fingers still fondling Spencer’s ass. 

“This is not at all how I thought tonight would go.”

Spencer snorts and shakes his head, feeling dizzy from alcohol and sex, adrenaline coursing sparks through his veins, but a lot more sober than before. “Next time-” he starts lazily and bites Adam’s throat, which earns him a hand in his hair, pulling and tugging until he’s still again. 

“Next time,” Adam growls and his voice sends shivers of pleasure up Spencer’s spine. “I’ll bend you over and-” He leans up and whispers something into Spencer’s ear, his breath hot, that makes Spencer blush and laugh. 

“You’re not the rose petals and missionary kind of guy, are you?” Spencer eventually concludes after Adam is done with his very detailed explanation of what exactly he’s going to with Spencer. 

“I can do missionary,” Adam says. “Adam-style.” With that he grabs Spencer’s wrists and flips them over again, settling between his legs and pinning Spencer’s hands above his head. 

He kisses Spencer until they’re breathless and Spencer thinks that, yeah, there may be times when it’s acceptable to not understand everything. There may be times when he needs to let go of his axioms and accept the beauty of the unknown.

\---


End file.
